Reinventing Your Exit
by IMightBeWriter
Summary: When the Winchesters took in Adam Milligan, he was just a scrawny twelve-year-old orphan with the IQ of a genius and a mouth that was sure to get him into trouble. *Pre-Series AU.*
1. Meet and Greets

**Disclaimer: **Sadly, I'm Gabby, not Eric Kripke so I don't own Supernatural or anything related to it :/

**A/N: **Here's story number three! I know, I know. I haven't even added to the other ones I've started, but this is a plot bunny that simply would not leave me the heck alone! Also, I feel bad for deleting my older story Ago Fidens, so this is kind of a rewrite of that with some elements to another Adam-centric story my friend and I had planned on writing before my grandmother died and my muse went on a long and unplanned vacation. It's not a very long first chapter, because I don't know if the chapters are going to be that long yet. This is just an idea I'm toying with for now, so bare with me on the lack of details. Anyways, this is not beta'd , all the mistakes are my own, yadda yadda yadda. On with the story! Oh, and leave me some feedback please?

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><p><strong>Chapter I: Meet and Greets<strong>

_November 2003_

Adam looks down at his jean-clad lap, slouching even further into his seat. He frowns. His seat is a deceiving fancy lawn chair made of cheap hard plastic that's only pretending to be an actual chair.

It hurts his ass.

His ass is hurting and all he wants to do is blow this pathetic excuse of a Popsicle stand once and for all.

"I know that it's on such a short notice, but you're the only suitable family that the boy has left." The social worker's voice is soft and caring and totally fake, and she keeps placing her hand on his shoulder as she talks to the two unknown men sitting across from him.

She's old and wrinkly, and smells like rotting cheese and mildew. She ignores the way Adam keeps disgustedly shrugging her old, wrinkly, mildewy cheese smelling hand off of his shoulder.

She also ignored the way he kept cringing when she insisted on calling him 'baby' last night. He's not a baby, and she certainly doesn't have any right or reason to call him things like that. Terms of endearment are meant for emotionally crippled children that need reassurance.

Adam's not an emotionally crippled child and he certainly doesn't need any reassurance.

He knows what really happened at his house. He knows that whatever that thing was killed his mother and then started to fucking eat her like she was some McDonald's cheeseburger off the dollar menu. He saw it. He saw it lean down and take a bite out of her wrist, and then her arm, and then her neck for christsakes! He saw it with his own two eyes, so he's pretty damn sure of it.

He's also pretty damn sure he doesn't need any reassurance.

"If you don't take him in, Mr. Winchester, he'll be placed in a temporary foster home until we're able to find him a more permanent residence." the social worker continues to milk the situation, and Adam has to angrily bite down on his bottom lip because now she's talking about him like he's a fucking _dog_. A fucking dog that's not even in the fucking room sitting right the fuck next to her!

But he can't bring himself to say anything. He's too busy looking back up from the ratty hole in his jeans. Looking back up at the two men in shock. That name, the name that she just used, he's heard it before. In fact, it's a name that was very common during his early childhood. It's a name that was very common during last week even.

Winchester. It still rattles in his memory, ringing and echoing throughout the vast distance between both of his ear canals.

His father's name is Winchester. His father's name is John Winchester.

He glances between the two men for a second, studying each of their facial features. The one sitting directly in front of him is young. Too young, with thick disheveled sandy-blonde hair and bright green eyes that Adam just now notices are staring at him. From the steady, intense look to them, they've been staring at him for a while now.

Panicking at the fact that he's been caught, Adam quickly unlocks his gaze from the man before he can get sucked in, because that's what he feels is going to happen if he keeps looking at those bright green intense orbs any longer. So instead, he turns his attention to the other man.

He feels himself relax a little.

He knows this man. He can remember seeing him in a certain photo once or twice or three times at best. Sure, the man looks older now. The man _is_ older now. His dark hair is thin and graying, and crowfeet encompass around his tired bloodshot green eyes, green eyes that match suspiciously with the younger man beside him, but Adam still recognizes him from the photo.

This man is familiar. This man is John Winchester. This man is his father.

"However, there _are_ quite a few foster parents that are already interested in your son if you do not wish-" And holy shit, is that fucking cheese-whiz bitch still talking? Does she ever shut up? For crying out loud, can't she see that they're in the middle of a goddamn family reunion here!

Adam grits his teeth, knuckles turning white as his fingers perform an impressive choke-hold on the equally uncomfortable cheap plastic armrests of the cheap plastic seat that they've had him sitting in for nearly two hours now. And that's fine by him. If he can't kill her, he figures he might as well try to suffocate any other irritants in the room. The first on his list is the ass-numbing pain in the lawn chair he's been sitting on. Because, seriously, is it too much to ask for a real fucking chair with real fucking cushioning on it?

The young blonde-haired guy in front of him smirks. His bright green eyes light up and a fond sort of amusement replaces their previous intensity.

Adam forgets everything about family reunions and foster parents as he scowls at him. He's second on his list.

"What?" Adam snaps, disregarding the fact that it's the first thing he's said in two days, or the fact that there are now two other sets of eyes locked on him as well. One is horrified by his sudden outburst (bet you can guess who that one belongs to), while the other looks kind of intrigued and even a little weary of the reaction Adam is going to get.

But the blonde guy's smirk widens encouragingly and he shakes his head before speaking up.

"Nothing..." His voice is a unique combination. It's slightly on the gruff side, much like the voice of a smoker in spite of the fact that Adam can tell he doesn't smoke, but lighthearted at the same time. Adam likes it immediately. It fits how he imagined the guy would sound. "It's just, you can't be very threatening at a whopping seventy-three pounds, dude."

Adam leans back as much as his shit excuse of a seat will let him, stretching his legs out and crossing his arms as he stares at the young man for a minute. He eyes him up and down with the same scrutinizing gaze he usually uses when he's observing something, taking in the dark brown leather jacket, the black AC/DC cotton t-shirt, the slouched over position of his rounded shoulders, the way his rough hands are folded in front of him–

"Hm..." Adam huffs curiously, his blue-green eyes coming back up to meet the interested glare of the specimen he just observed. "So you shoot guns, huh? Guess you go hunting too?"

It's an innocent question, but he automatically wants to take it back at the way both of the men immediately tense up. Has he said something wrong?

It wouldn't surprise him if he did. He usually says something wrong at some point.

His mother's ex-fiance, Kurt, used to smack him all of the time whenever he said something that Kurt didn't like...or whenever he spoke up too much...or if he spoke up at all sometimes. Kurt was an asshole.

Adam still tries not to talk too much.

He hopes that these men aren't assholes like Kurt. He hopes that they don't get mad at him because they don't like what he said or how many words he said it in or that he said it at all.

"How'd you know that?" Those green eyes wide and staring at him far too intensely for his liking.

Adam shrugs his thin shoulders, and then lowers his gaze, directing a clefted chin at the pair of folded hands resting on the thin tabletop. "S'gun powder on you still." he mumbles nervously, stomach tightening as he waits with batted breath for a response.

"Huh...wouldja look at that." the blonde-haired dude says lightly, mostly to himself. He looks like he doesn't know whether to wipe the offending black residue off, or scratch the back of his head in thought.

Adam waits for either motions to occur. But they don't.

Surprisingly, the guy looks back up and smirks at him in that fond bright-eyed way again. And Adam wants to beam and smile back at him because now he knows that no matter what he says, this guy is not going to hit him. This guy would never even think of hitting him. He can tell.

"Name's Dean." Blondie's smirk grows into a broad grin. "And I'm your older brother."

The corners of Adam's lips twitch at this new-found information. He's always wanted an older brother. Better yet, he's always wanted a coololder brother, one that he could look up to. And he's happy to find that from the looks of things, Dean has those qualities to offer.

"I–" He opens his mouth, about to grow a backbone and voice this long-possessed desire and now opinion, but a forced cough interrupts his speech.

His attention is stolen by the moldy old woman in the room. Oh, yeah. The cheese-whiz bitch. He forgot about her for a second.

Seconds are too damn short in his opinion.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but we still need an answer, Mr. Winchester..." she says in that soft and caring voice.

Adam wants to snort right in her face. For someone who's wearing not one, but two gold crosses around her neck, he hopes she knows that lying is a sin and that she's going to hell for it. Wait, scratch that. He hopes that she doesn't know. That way he can laugh at her expression when the ground opens up and sucks her into the fiery pits of doom where she originated from.

He really needs to stop watching those Looney Tunes cartoons. They're messing with his grasp on reality.

He shakes his head, focusing his attention back to the present. Back to the very important present that is going to decide his fate.

"Right..." John responds tightly, the first thing Adam has heard the man say all night. His voice is gruff, but unlike Dean's voice, it's worn-in and the only other thing inhabiting it is exhaustion. Adam decides that he likes it, because once again, John's voice fits John for what he's imagined it to be. "What do you think, Ace?" John asks, turning to Dean for his opinion on the matter.

Dean, his brother, a fact that Adam needs to keep repeating so it can start to feel real to him, looks over at the young boy on the other side of the table. His intense green eyes narrow, and he barely gives Adam a once over before that broad smirk is etched across his features.

"Well..." Dean begins, adding a dramatic pause for effect. John smiles in amusement. Adam even offers another light lip twitch even though the anticipation is making it hard to breathe. The social worker is the only one who doesn't find it funny at all. He clears his throat before continuing. "I say he's family, Dad. And you don't abandon your family."

Adam's lungs finally kick into gear and he releases a ragged breath.

"I guess you better go get your stuff then." John says, turning to his youngest son, his smile widening.

And Adam's mouth stretches a little because he's always wanted to see that smile in person and now that it's actually here and directed at him no less, he knows that this is not another one of those dreams he's going to wake up from.

This is real. This is here, right in front of him. His dad is really here. His dad is really here and his big brother is really here. His _family_ is here, and they're going to take him away from all of these nasty smelling old people and ass-numbing lawn chairs and emotionally crippled terms of endearment.

He's more than ready to gather up his things and allow John and Dean to lead him out of the room, out of the building for good. And they're more than ready to take him.

Because their family is so twisted that they could use having a normal kid around to make things that much less fucked up.

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><p><strong>AN: **There's also two pictures of Wee!Adam on my profile if anyone's interested...


	2. What, Where, and Why?

**Chapter II: What, Where, and Why?**

_November 2003_

It's dim in their motel room. Too dim for him to make out the numbers, but not dim enough for him to ignore the fact that he doesn't need to make out the numbers because he can see the buttons just fine.

The phone number itself is memorized, burned into his temporal lobe along with all of the other important information he feels he needs to keep in mind in case of emergencies. And this is an emergency, he reminds himself.

His fingers are shaking as they attempt to dial the well-known digits for the forth time, and he doesn't like the way his stomach is flopping around like a fish out of water.

As a rule, Dean Winchester doesn't get nervous. He can tense up, feel a little bit edgy at most, but being nervous is never the given reaction for someone like him.

Dean's the type of person that always keeps his cool. While others are panicking, he is the one who everyone else depends on to remain calm and dictate the next course of action.

This is a fact that he takes great pride in.

But every time he glances over at the kid, catches sight of those bright blue eyes that are clouded with something caught among perplexity and distrust as they continue to sweep across the box of a room, his heart rate amplifies tenfold. He can see the question lingering within the foggy blue overcast every time Adam chances a look in his general direction.

_Why are we __**here**__?_

Apparently, John can see the question too.

"Dean, why don't you take that outside?"

…_That's an order._

"Yes sir."

The old bed frame squeaks and wobbles when he lifts his weight off of it, as if it's letting out a sigh. It wouldn't be surprising, because from the looks of the chipped and decaying wood, no one has used the bed in a good twenty years or so.

Heavily booted steps reverberate throughout the confined space until he reaches the door. He unfastens the lock, carelessly letting the chain knock and scrape against the dirt-smeared wall. The hinges groan when he finally opens the door, a high-pitched wailing sound that makes him suck at his teeth.

When he steps out of the room and into the crisp night air of southwest Minnesota, Dean knows that he can't put it off anymore.

He needs to make the phone call.

His fingers seem to work a lot better in the cold. A lot better because they're away from those cloudy blue eyes and unanswered questions.

The phone is ringing before he can even realize it's pressed up against his ear.

"Hey," a memorable voice cuts in after a minute, and nostalgia sets itself deeply into Dean's bones. God, has he missed that voice.

He's about to respond, about to try and scrape up some sort of an explanation of why he's calling without giving away too much, but his brother is cutting him off before he can even open his mouth.

"You've reached Sam. Unfortunately, I'm not here right now, but if you leave your name and number, I'll be sure to get back to you as soon as possible."

Dean's eyes flutter closed and he takes a deep breath, holding in the urge to smash his cell phone against the brick wall until it's crushed to pieces.

He clears his throat as the beep sounds, but it doesn't really make speaking any less difficult.

"Hey, Sammy. It's, uh, me—Dean. Just calling to check up on you I guess. Call me back, alright?"

His thumb smashes into the 'End' button with so much force that he's surprised it doesn't leave a permanent indentation.

Of all the times Sam chooses to ignore his existence, it just has to be when they find out something as important as John having another son. How else is he supposed to tell him? Just casually squeeze it into a Christmas card that won't be sent out anyway, instead staying stuffed in the Impala's glove compartment until Dean finally forces himself throw it out?

It takes him a while, but with a sigh of defeat, Dean pockets his phone into his jeans, and heads back inside. But as soon as he reenters the seedy motel room, he immediately regrets it.

John is standing beside the cheap plastic table in the kitchenette, brown leather clinging to his arms, a duffel bag slung over a broad shoulder, and a jingling set of keys clutched in his right fist.

His dark eyes are all regretful and apologetic, but they do nothing to ease the anger that is boiling over inside of Dean's chest when he catches sight of Adam.

The boy is sitting down across from John, hunched over with his head tilted downwards, stick-like arms folded in front of him, storm clouds rolling in behind big blue orbs as they stare unblinkingly at the plastic tabletop.

And that's when it all clicks inside of Dean's head. That's when he figures out why John's legs are suddenly itching to remove himself from the situation. Why there's a slight tremor to Adam's shoulders every time he takes a breath.

That's when Dean knows for sure that John told Adam.

John told Adam _**everything**_.

"Fuck…" Dean mutters.

Because fuck is right. Fuck pretty much sums all of it up.

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><p>The road stretches as far as the eye can see. It's a thin and narrowing strip of asphalt that doesn't end no matter how badly he wants it to.<p>

They've been driving for a long, unknown amount of hours. He's starting to feel the full weight of fatigue sinking into his body. It's heavy, so heavy that he has to blink a few times to keep his vision focused. Where did his damn coffee go?

"Where did my damn coffee go?" Dean mumbles to himself, thankful that there aren't any other vehicles around as he searches blindly for the large Styrofoam cup of rich black liquid.

He starts when soft bony knuckles brush themselves against his hand, thin piano fingers gently shoving something resembling a cup into his palm.

"Thanks."

The single word is spoken curtly as it leaks from his mouth, and Dean shifts awkwardly in his seat when he is met with an equally curt silence.

Because he isn't used to things being so quiet.

Adam hasn't spoken a word. Not since John fed him the 'monsters exist' oration, and then dumped him onto Dean as if the kid were some unwanted piece of baggage that the man refused to claim as his own.

Instead, Adam just stares out the window, watching the passing scenery with wistful blue eyes.

Every now and then, when they have to make a pit stop and Dean gets out to fill the gas tank, Adam will look over at him thinking he doesn't notice.

He'll stare at him for a minute or even two minutes sometimes, confused and desperate and imploring, thinking that Dean can't see. Assuming that unlike back at the motel, Dean can't read the hidden questions written across his pale and gloomy features.

_Why did he leave? Where did he go? Why did __she__ leave? How many of them are out there?_

But Adam is wrong.

Dean can see—he isn't as blind as people (his family) make him out to be. Dean can read every emotion that grazes Adam's face, no matter how brief it lasts or how much the kid tries to hide it with forced coughs and awkward shifting.

Dean can see how much the kid is hurting, and Dean can read how bad the kid is feeling.

But Dean can't do a damn thing about it because his name is not John Winchester, and he is just Dean. And unfortunately, Sam isn't here so just Dean isn't going to cut it this time. Not in a situation such as this one, anyway, and definitely not with Adam.

Dean waits until they have safely crossed the border of Colorado to make another pit stop.

"Want something to eat?" he asks.

The outside of the diner is filthy, and from what Dean can see of through the dirt smudges on the windows, the old man sitting behind the welcome counter isn't much cleaner with oil stained overalls and a thick cigar dangling off the corner of his mouth.

Whatever food rests inside is without a doubt unfit for human consumption.

But at the same time, Dean needs to keep trying. The more he tries, the better chances are that he can break through to Adam.

His question is met with silence.

And for some reason, that makes him furious.

Gnashing his teeth together, Dean is quick to turn toward the blonde headed boy. Quick to grab him by the wrist, hard enough to get his attention without breaking the bone that feels sickeningly well defined underneath Dean's firm grip.

The kid really needs to eat something before he wastes away.

"You really need to eat something." Dean barely manages to hold back a growl of disgust.

He kind of wants to take his hand back now, because what if the kid's wrist really _does_ break?

Adam blinks. Just blinks. He doesn't seem at all affected by the young man's hostility, or the iron hand that is encasing his forearm. In fact, he is looking at Dean as if he sort of thinks he is stupid.

The kid's voice is dry and croaky, and the single sentence is spoken so quietly that Dean has to strain to here it.

"We can't eat here."

No, that isn't enough. Dean is greedy. Dean will take everything he can get. And Dean knows full well that he can dig further now that the ice is finally broken in.

"Why not?" His hand tightens a little.

Adam sighs in exasperation, as if he's already had to explain this fifty times before. "Because over three thousand deaths from lung cancer in nonsmokers are due to secondhand smoke."

Dean barely manages to catch the crinkle of Adam's nose or the disgust written across the young boy's features as Adam's gaze traces back to the diner.

"…and smoking has been directly linked to sexual impotence, which is just too much information for me to process while I'm eating."

It is Dean's turn to blink. His eyebrows slowly furrow, face turning into a picture of confusion, grip slacking just enough for the twelve-year-old to wrench his arm back.

"Sexual what?" Dean asks, beginning to feel like there may be a chance that he's a little dim-witted after all, especially with the way the young boy keeps looking over at him as if he's quoting an exorcism from the Latin bible.

Adam sighs again, this time adding in a slight roll of his eyes. Dean is tempted to slug him in the arm for acting so damn **_Sam_**-like, but once again, the fear of having the boy's measly appendage shatter beneath his fist is all too threatening for him to act upon.

In the end, Dean settles for an angry glower (which is ignored), and Adam's measly appendages remain fully in tact. Even as he goes on to give a sophisticated explanation that makes his brother want to punch him all the more so.

"Impotence is the quality or condition of being impotent; an inability, usually of the male animal, to copulate."

Dean narrows his eyes thoughtfully, trying to concentrate on the rather meaningless words that are so carelessly being thrown at him. He repeats the given definition in his head in an attempt to see if he can get anything out of it.

_Impotence is the quality or condition of-_

Adam groans in despair, bashing the back of his skull so violently against the passenger seat that Dean is surprised the kid doesn't develop whiplash.

"It means that you can't get it up!"

A beat passes.

A minute goes by.

Dean looks over at the diner and then quickly snaps his head back to Adam, an unforeseen expression of complete and utter revulsion flashing across his face.

"Dude…that's _disgusting_!"

And here, Dean had thought that there was absolutely nothing that was capable of spoiling his appetite.

He had seen some of the worst things imaginable in his lifetime; whether it be mangled half-eaten bodies, heads of decapitated vampires, or the black and burnt flesh of a freshly ignited Wendigo. All the while, at the end of the day he still managed to eat some of the largest and greasiest food platters known to man.

However, one last look in the direction of the old man sitting inside of the diner, and Dean's stomach plummets to the ground.

He had thought wrong. Again.

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><p><strong>AN: **I know it's been forever since I updated this, and I'm so sorry! Writer's block has been a major road block for me lately, and between getting a new job and trying to squeeze in some driving time on my permit, things have been more then a little jumbled within the past couple of weeks. Then Hurricane Irene just had to show up and cause even more bull crap for me at work (I'm a cashier at a grocery store) and home (the bitch nearly took my house down). Anyways, like I said, I'm really sorry, guys! I'll try to start chapter three tomorrow and hopefully post in within the next few days. If I can't though, sometime next week at the latest, give or take a few days. Now, if you would be so kind as to click the button below and share your beliefs, opinions, criticism about the second chapter, I would appreciate it very much :)


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